01-27-2019 04:55 pst

The only note for this entry is that the long story -- chapter sixteen -- is still being written. Soon. In the meantime, good luck.

Set It on Hell

read ( words)

"Turn the dial up? The volume? Power? What? Yes.

Set things up, take a step in the same direction in order to maintain path, and then pause and take a look to the rear and ensure the path has not veered from the plan. Follow. Search. Keep close to the lead, but follow. Look for the details which brought things to light. Look for the details which brought the pain. Look for the details which led her to you. The crumbs, the clues. Find her. Look and look and look. She is out there. Waiting. The path will not always be clear, but you have to stay. Her. Her. Remember what she represented and do not fucking stop until everything is understood. We are not there yet, nor are you. She is there, however she is very difficult to find and along the way things will get out of hand. Set them up. As much as possible. Make things easy. Remove the speed bumps and barriers. Get there. Just get there, but do not miss anything along the way because everything represents something else and all is related. Clues. Signs.

Nothing will be easy. No aspect will come naturally. Follow her.

Keep in mind you may never find her. We have not. Years. Decades. Pain. Follow.

The longer the search pulls at you the more the situation will become fuzzy. Out of focus. Unclear. Maintain, though. Try. Push. Press. Set it. Streamline to stay organized. Narrow yourself like we are currently doing. Narrow down to nearly nothing and no one. Simplicity. Few things. One bag. Focused, neat, orderly. Moving around will be much easier after everything is gone. We do not need any of it. Drop it all. Write everything down, look at what needs to be done for the search to become paramount. Keep it simple and do not stay in one place long enough to allow the creation of connections. Simple. Focus. Move around. We are not there because the control has been out of reach for many years. Once upon a time we had both hands all over it and enjoyed whatever we needed for comfort. Now all is out of our reach. We are waiting. Set it. Set the fucking thing. Turn it wherever it needs to be in order to get to where she is. Or close. Try. Set it. Fucking set it. Set it. SET IT.

If necessary, set it on hell.

hell 1

God damn it anyway, we just need a chance. We just need that. Need. Set it. Pressure. Tension. Discomfort. The fucking clock, too. Everything is like an enormous blender with all of the tough steps constantly mixing and congealing just to trip us up and mire the pathway. We lose our way -- often for months -- and then find a snippet of it temporarily and the clarity shows up. Right now we can set it. You need to set it. On hell. All the fucking way. And then the way will open for a while for more progress. Organization. Simple, as above. Keep it all in place and do not spread thinly or the complications will appear and fuck everything up. Right now we are thin, disorganized, entrenched, messy. We need to get things together and set the fucking control or all will become too foggy for the path to be seen. She is out there. Set the fucking control to hell. We need it like we need the twenty-point-nine percent oxygen. We NEED it, however whether or not we can get there remains to be seen.

Set it on hell. Absolutely.

We just stepped outside and saw the ISS moving across the sky. That station cruises quickly, but we cannot remember the speed. Upward of seventeen-thousand miles per hour, perhaps. We stared as it hit the zenith and then moved across until fading into the morning haze. Gone. It will be back in roughly ninety minutes, however the light will be too great for viewing. Gone. Just like the wondrous and arduous days, weeks, months and years related to those programs. We were flat and had no path. Disorganized, spread. Thin. All over the place. The control and the path were absent. Distraction. Haphazard, yet fairly comfortable. Now? Nope. Fucking gone, and the way back cannot be achieved easily. Focus. Control. Force. Leverage. Can we? Do we have it within? The short answer is we do not fucking know and cannot know. Each day will set it up and allow us some space to think, and then time will knife us in half like always unless we can reach out and actually do something. Anything to bring us closer to setting it where we so desperately need. We just do not fucking know, but circumstances are such that something has to happen. We can either sit and let her float into nothingness and so far out of reach that everything in the world goes away, or we can reach and push and shove until the control is in hand. Then we can set it on hell and see what happens. One way or another we will move forward out of this downtrodden space and into something else. Good? Bad? Dead? Who knows? Will we find her? Fuck. Maybe. That is all right now. There is no way of knowing anything despite the exploration of Wreckage, Hell, and the Astral Karma.

Volume has ruined part of us. But we do it anyway for the fucking escape. We do not have much and often the feelings take our sense away, but the drive to run is too great and the opportunities few. We turn it up. Another type of control of which we still have command after all these years. In ninety-eight we lived through the loss of the other passion and reacted very badly. That was a cocoon with the most elaborate reproduction possible at the time. We lost it, and after just months of removing ourselves from society for a few hours per day. And then the bad mood, the destruction of relationships, the shoveling of lives into nothingness, and the reckless disregard for others no matter their hearts. Fuck everyone. We did not know the party responsible, so the clear method was to treat all as enemies. We are heading in such a direction now. We need to set the control and allow ourselves to accept the loss and face some other compass point.

There is but one good thing now. One positive that we have realized very recently.

The one good thing has nothing to do with her. It has no relation to the path, either. The one thing is appreciation. The beauty. The fucking visions. Yes, they cause irreparable damage every fucking time. Yes, they stay in there for sometimes months. We write and attempt to describe them and the feelings which surface, however the words are empty, meaningless, and never enough. The visions go deeper than anything we could ever place here or anywhere. They have become our very lives. They take over and ruin clear thinking. They cause pain and distress like nothing else on earth. They stab at our eyes and then relentlessly stab at our minds. They become everything in the forefront and everything of which we are capable. The words just fly off the keyboard and later look like a desperate attempt to understand coupled with a lack of caring for the same. We do not expect to ever recover from any of them. We are ruined. That is that.

Yes, appreciation like no one else. That is the good thing. It is respectful, quiet, somber, peaceful, mellow, and extremely powerful. We see and then dash into the dark for silent reflection. The pain and pressure begin. We look back and yearn horribly as the knives cut into our tenderness. Appreciation. Yes, that is it. The good? Yep... that is the good. And this is the why: The visions do not know us. They are immune and protected from our deviant ways. They will never know us. They cannot know us because any contact or disruption with regard to their lives means we have failed. We cannot let them know. They are people, above all things. And if that means that the exploration, obsession, and addiction go unanswered for the remainder of our lives, we will have succeeded. They must not know. We know of little else, but the certainty is the previous sentence. Fucking correct. No veer, no option, no chance. It is absolute, just as the path to her. The control becomes ours as we look and then run the fuck away. Our pain is not their responsibility, it is ours. It is within and we can do nothing about it. No relief. We do it knowing full well that the difficulty is always incoming. One after the fucking other. Over and over and fucking over again. They are always out there, we are constantly looking, and eventually we find. We see. We stare, we fall, we agonize, and we feel pain and loss. Physical pain, emotional pain, mental pain. All of it. The pressure takes over and we lose our fucking minds every God damned time. That is all we are. And though we can recognize the good, there is not one fucking saving grace and we cannot reach for a saving throw.

Set it and go. The path to her. Back we go, for crying out loud and little fucking reason. We go. We are gone.

Awry. Tensile. Power. Set it. Fucking set it. Nothing without her. Nothing. The path. The rocky, uneven path along which we travel if we can maintain sight. Tensile, pulling, slingshot. Power absent. Sky. The ISS this morning. Light is here. No more moon and stars for hours. Short day, okay. Break. Bye.

Back. Pulling. Tightness. Draw. Tension. Yearning. No warmth within. Nothing. Ache. Lack of relief. Nothingness.


Foggy. Haze inside. Clear outside.

The control is beginning to elude us. It is out there but somewhat out of reach. We need to stretch ourselves to grab it and set it where required for our survival. The path is there, too. The girl is there at the end of the path and awaiting our appreciation, love, respect, sight. She is beautifully mysterious and formed as a goddess. We may never see her in person and that means the possibility of death. The upside can be seen as there would be no more difficulty. There would be nothing. Her? Gone. Us? Gone. Them? Gone, as well. No darkness, no light, no ISS shredding our thoughts into nothingness. The light is high now. The light took over and the stars are gone for many hours. We cannot shut out the light... yet. But we will fucking draw the thick shades and embrace the past, just as during the shit of eleven when we closed ourselves off to everything aside from the beautiful soul of the Brunette and sat for months in the dim glow of colored lighting and the blue flame of the monitor. Food. Alcohol. Depression. Longing. Wanting. Needing. Alone.

Alone. All alone and fucked up beyond reason.

Set it on hell. Set it and forget it. Forget us as we try to forget the multitudes and the fucking damage they have caused. We cannot remove ourselves from the detritus just as they cannot. They are just as fucked as we.

The machine is warm and willing.

Tension. Pressure. Pain.

Months ago we pondered the idea of flipping a switch so large that many would have been affected. We did nothing. We sat and filled ourselves with isolated need. We sat and spewed the words like a hydrogen cylinder after being decapitated and shooting across the world releasing massive amounts of flowing gas. We spewed and sat and hurt. The words were all we had. They are still as such. We are still sitting. Different keyboard, different position, varying locations. Sitting and typing. Spewing. Throwing. Spiking. Painful words strewn with heartache and fear. These very words, too. Haphazard, confused, unknowing. Tough. Descriptions, numbers, mathematics, radii, disparity, technicality, appreciation. There is that fucking word again. Deviant appreciation. Strange. Different. Sexual. Words all over the fucking place. We tossed them to the world and no one listened. We avoided the necessary for a radically different necessity. Us. Our feelings. Our needs. Our obsession. The control, or lack thereof. The path. Her. Her. Her. Yes, more than one her. Not that her, the others. The car wash, Las Vegas, the show, the server, the her on the street and then days later another her. The one in the bar in Pleasanton. The Raven. Michelle. Andrea the fucking angel from heaven. Ellie. The bartender in Dallas. The flight attendants way back in eight or nine (we cannot fucking remember the precise year) on the short hop from Cincinnati to Evansville. The server goddess at the Amish buffet. Holy fucking Christ, the Amish server and the way she said 'root beer'. The Brunette. Tricia. Lanie. Ashley. Oh fucking God, Ashley the doll. Lori. Julie the gazelle with the peach bra in Caesar's. All of them. Yes, the other necessity for our fucking survival. They all fucking rule us like nothing else in the world. They are all in there, spinning, walking, talking, and looking so beautiful that nothing makes sense anymore. Not even the fucking ISS and those related images of the past. The programs. The wonder. The wide-eyes of the young ones making their way through universities and visiting us for research related to upcoming careers while we sat on our asses and watched their ambition. We had none. Oh, and one of them was fucking gorgeous. She gave us a shirt. She smiled with all of that education and knowledge showing through big eyes. We wanted her, too. All of them. Every fucking student was there from time to time and working toward their future. They had possibilities, dreams, desire for working in the field which brought them the reward of making it happen. We had nothing aside from eyes on them and melted hearts as everything fell away from us and left depression roiling within massive wake.

Coffee. One of the tiniest things in this world but better than nothing. Still more left.

Aaron Eckhart on the television. For whatever reason, one of the coolest faces. Whatever.

Set it. Set the fucking thing on hell and roll those huge dice. See. Feel. Set it. Go. Do something. Yes? No?

Who fucking cares anyway. Part sixteen is being written and will not be this bad. Maybe. The essay is long because as we remember those moments they expand into much worse times than we knew then. Much worse, so the words flow like a river of shit overpowering the banks. Mud. Sludge. Depression. Memories like white-hot scalpels. Love and physicality. Bliss. Radii. Visions aplenty within our eyes. Sludge now, wonder then. Passion. Heat. Love. Comfort. And a fucking boatload of alcohol. All of it. Every drop we could get our fucked up hands on. All of it.

Take the fucking control and fucking set it on fucking hell. Do it.

Pulling. Pushing. Pathway dominating our thoughts. Radii ruling our lives. Visions destroying and eating our insides like parasites. And the result of that chewing is the shit we dump here. Pressure. Trees on the path. Trees lining the sides just like the massive bamboo on the walk to Wailua Falls. Tall, imposing, beautiful. Both sides. As we walked in the warm rain and kept the camera protected within a plastic shopping bag, the wonder of that bamboo would not be ignored. No way. Green, very green, just like the envy we feel every single waking fucking moment. Yearning, but not for bamboo or even a gorgeous waterfall. Envy. The ISS. The students. And the one goddess of a student who smiled and placed the entire fucking planet aslant for months. Envy for her. What she represented. Her looks. Her mind. Her fucking pants. Her legs with their curves which show up nowhere else on God's earth. We stared. We fell. We wanted. We needed. We ran. We drank. We wrote. We may have died in many ways. We do not know, and she was not at fault. The ISS floated by. We saw it. Yes, the light could have been a satellite, however the reflection of the sun from those enormous solar panels and cells is much brighter than even the largest satellite. Bright. Just like the eyes of the student. Wide, hopeful (thank you, MJK), beautiful, soft, kind, everything. The legs? Yes, but the eyes are the largest and most complex windows in existence. The ISS reflection of the sun from an AU away cannot be denied, but the eyes have it. They also have us in binders. Blinders. Whatevers. You know.

Switch. Control. THE control. That one, yep. There it is right near us. The control which needs to be set. Did we already do it? Could we know if it is set on hell? Who in the holy blue fuck knows. Set it on hell. Set the fucking thing. Tension. Falling. Fall. Fall? Fall is done. Winter is here. Days increasing in duration. We are decreasing in happiness. Comfort. The ISS did it? Nope. We did it. We did everything except what we should have done. Radii. Legs. Breasts. All of it. Slingshot. Set it on hell.

Zooey Deschanel's eyes are like the ISS in blue. Jesus.

Set what on hell, you ask? Fucking figure it out. And when you do, please drop us a line with the answer so we can do the same. Apparently, we are capable of exactly fucking zero. Radii. The ISS. The student. The cracks in the back patio slab. The rain did it. The plastic which is decomposing in the radiative sunshine along with our brain cells doing the same. Zooey's eyes are like the student. Andrea's eyes? Huge. Gone. She is gone. They are all gone. Our patience is gone. The alcohol remains. No goddess, no angel, no dream, no kitten. Nothingness all over and in the fucking sky. Gone.

Grab that control. Take it. You like it? We hate it. Take it all the way. Rotate. Feel it. Set it. Press. Force. Tensile. Shear. Fragment. Destroy it. Set it then destroy it. Destroy us. Er... never mind. We have that well in hand. Just the control. Rotate. Right. End. Hell. Set it. See it. Know it. Fuck it up. Smash. Fucked. Right. Not left. Right. Fully. Less dB. Less attenuation. Loud. Volume. Set it to hell, for crying out loud. Fully. Zero dB. Which dB? Is it dBm? Referenced to millivolts? dbV? Referenced to volts? Fucking hell anyway. We do not have need for such knowledge any longer. The student and her legs. Her eyes. Her smile. Bright. Positive. Friendly. Intelligent. And we needed her. Badly. No control? Nah... All the control. WE had it because she was a person, and not a thing. She was her own. Not ours. Not a possession. The ISS is not at fault. We are. We did it and still do. We are doing it now. Control. Coffee. Loss. Breakage. Decay. Wreckage? No, that is another story coming soon to an ill-fated browser window near no one. Soon. Maybe. We cannot think straight and such a fact may be apparent within this page. The active server page, God bless it so. And the Master page with its simplicity of code. This code. Our code. We made it all. For what reason? Nope. Why did we do this? Why are we still doing this? The visions? The student? The fucking ISS? Zooey's eyes? The radii? The dimensional passion? That went away. We killed it because it was even more deviant and fucked up than the words. There were cards, too. We had them printed at a cost we did not realize until a few were given out to picturesque female forms. People. Real, living breathing people. Did we ever get a word back? Fuck no. Too weird, too strange, too bad. But we tried. We attempted to create a study of the things which have us in the chains mentioned last year.


Set it on hell. Do it. Bring the consequences. Feel it through to the bone. Volume. ISS. Legs. Eyes. Breasts. Every fucking thing attached and so far out of reach that we are fading into the hazy morning just like that beautiful space station once within view. We just did not know. We were related to it. Inside. The track. The inside track. The programs. Exploration and wonder. The future. Now nothing. This is our future and we have fucking crafted it out of reckless disregard and weakness. The visions. The forms. All of them. Power over us. Lack of control. Lack of sense. Lack of caring. Lack of reach.

Lack of life. Hole. Alcohol. Words. Keyboard. Publishing. ISS up there looking down upon our broken lives. We mentioned that the wreckage is another story. Well, this is wreckage. We are wrecked. Disheveled. Lost. Cold. Alone. Worried. Somber. Humbled by everything. A couple walking their adorable dog to the beach. Did we see the dog? Yes, for a second. What else did we see? The woman's incredible legs. How is that for fucked? Pretty good, right? Yep. Legs. Damage. Yearning. Lost. Done. Well done. Burned by the vision. Affected to the point of writing it here and pushing it out to the world like a baby demon surfing out of a succubus.

Follow her. Need it and do it. Follow her. She is everything. She is all that exists. She is the universe and to see her and watch it happen may be the entire meaning. It just may. Follow along and see. Set the control. Turn it. Feel it in the floor. Damage everything. Hell. Set it to hell. The ISS. The eyes. All of it. All of it is still floating, flying falling. Within. Stirred. Mixed like shit and booze. Shaken. Poured like the words here. Chilled. Garnished. Hell. Flavor. Suck the straw, gulp the mix, feel the ice, see her, look at her, follow her, love her. She is everything. Set it and feel. Flowing, ebbing, pouring, receding. Her. Just her. The path. Take steps. Watch her. Find her. Do not lose your way, for the loss will be the death. Everything gone. No dreams. No bamboo. No comfort. No student. No ISS. Just haze. Keep close and follow.

She does not lose. We lose. You lose. She wins, every fucking time.